BRILLIANT MINDS
by OnyxWritter
Summary: [SLASH] Before him stood a man quite unlike any other he has ever had the misfortune of meeting. Heterogeneous in nature, he painfully stood out amongst the daily drivel of gold-fish. He was dressed in a cotton, black waistcoat pocket business casual suit vest and dark grey dress slacks obviously worn but cared for.
1. Disclaimer & Summary

**Disclaimer**

I do not own "BBC Sherlock", _Steven Moffat_ and _Mark Gatiss_ do. I do not own the movie "Star Trek" (2009), Gene Roddenberry (creator) and J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof (producers) do.

All characters belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Gene Roddenberry, J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof; except the few I have created for this Fan-Fiction. The plot-twists also belong to me.

No part of this Fan-Fiction publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from me.

 **Copyright © 2018 by OnyxWritter. All Rights Reserved.**

 **~ϗ~**

 **Summary**

[SLASH] Before him stood a man quite unlike any other he has ever had the misfortune of meeting. Heterogeneous in nature, he painfully stood out amongst the daily drivel of gold-fish. He was dressed in a cotton, black waistcoat pocket business casual suit vest and dark grey dress slacks obviously worn but cared for. The only piece of jewelry he wore was a black touch-screen wrist watch on his left wrist. Mocha colored eyes took in the room, studiously yet quickly; before settling his eyes on aqua blue ones. Observing the man's profile, Sherlock listed off all of his attributes. Loose-spiked tendrils of raven hair fell almost carelessly away from his face. Mocha eyes held a striking silver gleam of knowledge between their irises, three-day stubble adorned his handsome jaw, beyond that his face was perfectly expressionless.

To outsider's it would appear both peculiar men where sizing each other up in terms of intellect, in reality though, a fascinating communication was being held within those few moments. It was a contest between them, who could 'read' each other first. Sherlock prides himself on being able to look 'through' anyone, picking up on the little things and visualizing their life story. In this instance, he found himself on the opposite end of intense observation. The man before him was brilliantly fascinating! He stared as if nothing else in the room mattered, as if nothing but Sherlock, held all of his answers. It was unnerving (Sherlock would adamantly deny ever feeling such a thing) yet he was intensely exhilarated by it. (If the tightening of his pants and accelerated heart rate was anything to go by).

'The Game is On…' he muses. 'Absolutely Brilliant!'


	2. Proem

**Proem**

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'Space. The final frontier, these are the voyages of the Starship, _Enterprise_ , it's 5 year mission, to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before…' – Narrator, Star Trek (2009)

 **~ϗ~**

 **SOL 2259.55 (2259-2260)**

 **U.S.S. Starfleet Federation- The Winchester**

The small research vessel they boarded shifted at random intervals at light speed. Causing light beams to constantly morph and shine at various angles nearly blinding the crew with its intensity. At full-light speed ahead, massive distortions rippled through the fabric of time and space, periodical explosions against the ships walls additionally altered the ship's integrity.

Captain Spock Grayson, prodigy of the illustrious _Vulcan Academy of Science,_ and the first Vulcan to enlist in the Starfleet Federation was currently stifling the rising panic amongst his crew by delegating various duties for them to perform.

Instantly, blaring alarms and hazard lights erupted across the screens further clouding the navigational systems. Engineering Officer Zulu immediately began shouting out orders to redirect power.

"Damage Report!" Spock's cool voice broke through the ensuing chaos, while he strapped himself down on the Deck Captain's chair.

Through the ships intercom, the tense voice of Lead Engineer Markova could be heard yelling orders. "Reroute Auxiliary Power to thrusters! Keep Shields at Full capacity! Captain Spock the ship's power cells have been damaged beyond repair we must begin emergency procedures!"

"How much power do the cells currently have?"

"Less than 10% Sir." L.E. Markova grimly replied. Spock turned his attentions to the screens in front of him, a million scenarios flashing behind his steady gaze before settling on one strategy where loss of life is minimal at best. Another explosion resounded through the ships main haul, the enemy ship was gaining on them whittling their diminishing defenses.

Accessing the ships main frame and primary intercom, Spock ordered, "All personnel of U.S.S. Winchester are to immediately head to the nearest emergency escape pods. The ships defenses have been compromised. All personnel are to evacuate immediately. This is Captain Spock, it has been a pleasure serving with you all. May you live long and prosper."

Spock turned to his lieutenants and ordered for their immediate evacuation. "I shall remain behind and watch over your evacuation. Auto-Pilot services have been compromised, the only way to ensure your survival is if someone remains behind."

"But sir! We will remain behind with you!" Lieutenant Montez cried while slamming her hands against a malfunctioning screen monitor.

Spock closes his eyes briefly before ordering his crew to evacuate again. "You are to evacuate these premises immediately, Lieutenant! That is a direct order! No one has to die this way! It is the only logical solution to this scenario. Now leave!" At the end if his reprimand, Spock imputed an override code onto the sensors forcefully blocking out all of his crews attempts to remain behind.

An automated voice spoke through the ships intercom. "Shield's at less than 5%. Fuel Cells less than 3%. Main Power down to 4%. Evacuation Capsules at 95% completion."

Spock focused on directing any power source left to the evacuation pods and maintaining life support. As he quickly imputes lines of code and self-destruct sequences, he feels his crew reluctantly leaving the main deck. But not before sharing words of confidence and fleeting touches against his side.

The same automated voice calls out again.

"Debris located straight ahead, approaching at high speeds. Change Direct Course. Evacuation Capsules at 98% completion."

Spock then began to input a code for manual override on the teleportation device built into the Captain's chair.

"ETA?" he asks the automated voice, while watching the last evacuating capsule disengage from the main ships haul.

"2 minutes till collision. Evacuation Capsules at 99%."

Taking a deep, settling breath, Spock directs all emergency power to the ships shields in vain hopes to acquire more time to escape.

"55 seconds till collision." A tense silence fills the deck, around Spock beams of bright light surround his body.

"Shields at less than 2%. 35 seconds till collision."

"WARNING. FUEL CELL LEKAGE. WARNING CO2 LEVELS DROPPING. WARNING IMMINENT COLLISION IN 5…4…3…2…1"

Metal scrapped against metal, tempered glass shattered darting like transparent missiles in every direction before being sucked out into the vacuum of space. Followed soon after, a resounding explosion tore through the back of the ship as the enemy continuously fired upon them. The propulsion further pushed the front of the deck into the floating debris. Spock held down onto the arms of his chair as pain rioted through his body. Breathing became a challenge all on its own. His eyes were clenched shut against the blinding white light, a feeling of dread pooled in the pits of his stomach as the bindings holding him in place are being torn apart by the vacuum of gravity.

Just as his flesh begins to feel like it's being viciously torn from his insides, Spock immediately feels airborne. Similar to how gas particles continuously bump into each other at lightning speeds, Spock is broken apart and dispersed. At quantum levels, matter is displaced and restructured before repeating the cycle all over again. It was a strange paradox, dispersing as Nano-particles while at light speed. Falling like distilled matter droplets, Spock fell out of light-speed into the unknown. Passing through undiscovered space, pass rocks of frozen ice and into a polluted stratosphere. Free-falling as dead weight past nimbus clouds and the eerie glow of a half-moon, down Victorian buildings into the darkness beckoning below.

Until finally solidifying into being once more, only to crash harshly upon a dumpster's side further enlarging the Splinching wound on his abdomen.

Rolling nausea and pain course through his body as he struggles to focus on his surroundings for imminent danger. Blinking rapidly to dispel the lingering white spots, Spock tenderly wriggles his toes and moves his limbs slowly. Testing for further injuries despite the stinging pain and wetness coming from his side. The smartly bruising he already feels spreading across his torso from the harsh impact against the….dumpster? Confusion rapidly follows the vomit erupting across his esophagus and into the sour fast-food containers by his side.

Vermin varying between soaked rats and a disgusting colony of roaches quickly scuttle across half-eaten piles of sour mush. Spock slowly rises from his slumped position, his right hand coming into contact with a soggy newspaper and a half decayed rat. The remains release an ever fouler odor that causes his eyes to water and nose to burn from the acidity.

Grunting in pain, Spock slowly rises and places his soiled hand against the dumpster's grimy wall as an extra support until his legs become steady once again. Breathing through his mouth, (internally gagging at the toxins and indistinguishable fluids staining his clothing), Spock squints around himself seeing nothing but washed-out cobblestone. Holding his Splinched side, and leaning heavily onto the alleyway's damp walls, Spock made his way through the darkness occasionally brushing against large piles of week-old trash and critters squeaking into the night.

Twisting into the left, Spock is able to make out a flickering lamppost. Knowing help may be around the bend, a new burst of energy fills him until he is dragging his battered body determinately towards it.

 **~ϗ~**

Ms. Hudson worried her hands nervously upon her grocery bags, it was already late into the evening and the brutal London winter air assaulted her poor body without mercy. She hurriedly made her way down the street as she walked beneath flickering lamp posts. Causing shadows to fall against her worried face, lovely green doe-eyes anxiously jumping from shadow to shadow; paranoia rising each moment she walks into the darkness.

Another brutal gust of wintery wind slams against her shivering body, causing her to stop in place bringing one weathered knee in to meet the other. Hunching over her frail form in hopes of waiting it out.

In the semi-darkness Ms. Hudson finds herself in, she hears faint scuffing sounds from up ahead. The entry-way to an ominous alleyway sinisterly beckons her forward. As if in a trance, she slowly ambles forward, her hands grasping her grocery bags in a white knuckled grip.

When she reached the alleyway, she stopped half-hiding her body against the wet cobblestone and arching her upper half into the alley itself.

Ms. Hudson expected to meet a crazed serial killer or a passed out junkie within the alley way surrounded by trash and the like. Never did she suspect of meeting a hunched over wounded man.

Feeling empathy Ms. Hudson places her grocery bags onto the side walk and prepares to approach the man. Immediately after, the man's trembling legs catch themselves on a hidden pot hole, gravity takes its pull and the man slowly falls forward. A small gasp of pain escapes him as he struggles to stop his descent into the cold, sidewalk below. Expecting the following pain from the impact, the man frowns in confusion and pain. Instead of cold stone, he feels soft cotton, warmth and hears the steady beating of a heart.

Cautiously, the man slowly brings his head upward catching a glimpse of graying blonde wisps of hair and a well-knitted scarlet scarf. Blinking his eyes slightly open, the man utters three simple words that launch a painful dagger into Ms. Hudson's bleeding heart due to their undisputable need.

"Help me, please." Before the man completely falls forward against her chest as he loses consciousness completely. Only then did she notice the blood oozing out of his wound and the stark paleness that only has place appearing on the dead.

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